


Everything You Need Me to Say

by Links



Series: Things I Liked about You [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9411773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links/pseuds/Links
Summary: Sherlock's (unconventional) answer to John's letter.Can be read as a standalone but I recommend reading first Things I Liked about You, it would make more sense!I'll try to update as regularly as possible.





	1. Prologue

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He had never seen the 221b looking so neat and tidy. Everything was in its place – cups in the drawer, telly remote put on the coffee table, next to yesterday’s newspaper, carefully folded.

“Dismal. Truly dismal,” he muttered.

“You were saying, Sir?”

He raised his hand to silence the overeager assistant.

_Memo to myself – asking Anthea to train better Mr. Smith._

Or else he should find another place of employment very soon.

The umbrella softly tapped on the clean floor, sounding like a faithful pet showing its agreement.

“Mister Smith, would you please go outside? It would be very unpleasant if Mrs Hudson would come back and catch us unawares…”

The chances of that happening were slim to none and both of them knew it. Without ever turning round, thanks to a mirror judiciously hung up on the wall, Mycroft saw in Mr Smith’s hunched shoulders and weak reply – “Of course, Sir” - the confirmation that he was perfectly aware that he has displeased his employer.

Left alone, Mycroft took in the whole living room at one glance. He couldn’t stop himself letting out a weary little sigh.

Was he the only one who remembered the joyful chaos of this room, the lovely racket emanating from this flat?

No, it couldn’t be. John certainly remembered these days where everything and everyone seemed to gravitate round the master of this house.

A master who was now conspicuously absent.

“And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?” he whispered to himself.

Of course, in the immediate wake of Sherlock's fall and demise – in which he has never believed, thank you very much – it was easy to pretend.

Easy to play the big brother in deep mourning.

After all, if you were unable to feign, whether it be discomfort or happiness, you could kiss your political ambitions goodbye.

He was content enough to play the role that Sherlock has knowingly set up for him and then he waited.

Like a big spider at the centre of its web, he waited for the tiniest signs which would prove him that his brother was alive.

In this Sherlock surprised him. One by one, Moriarty’s minions started to fall, like apples rotten to the core removed by the gardener’s careful hand. Their downfall was orchestrated with such an implacable will that it didn’t take long for Mycroft to understand that Sherlock was motivated for the first time in his life not by his burning curiosity or his wish to be the first to solve a problem, but by a terrible wrath.

During these first months, he eagerly followed the trail left by his brother through Belgium, France, Austria and then Eastern Europe.

It abruptly stopped a few weeks ago in Hory, a little town in Byelorussia, a few miles away from the Russian border.

A man was killed, two others were left for dead and Sherlock seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

Mycroft softly rubbed his forehead.

“Where are you, brother of mine?”

His vast network of spies and other useful contacts returned empty-handed. Even the most unsavoury and cunning characters that Mycroft, in his desperation, had to get in touch with had nothing but lies for him.

He spent many nights plotting, drawing up plans which were reduced to ashes at first light.

Mycroft was finally forced to admit his defeat. It wasn’t the first time he has been obliged to do so, but it was certainly one of his harshest failures.

“Epic fail”, as the young ones would say.

_Damn you, Sherlock!_

He was looking for a man who, in the eyes of everyone, was dead and buried. Such cruel irony.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Why has he come here, again?

He hasn’t really believed that Sherlock would be hidden here under his very nose, has he?

It was a silly thought – especially since John Watson was still living here. The good doctor would be unable to conceal such a fact.

Or maybe, he thought, it wasn’t so stupid, after all.

What has motivated him to break in John Watson’s flat has been the certainty that Sherlock, if he were still alive, would be unable to leave his only friend alone. During the years they have lived together at Baker Street, Mycroft had many opportunities to observe the dynamics between these two.

Constantly looking for one another, helping each other, caring for each other in such a way that left him baffled and quite a bit jealous – something he spared no pains to conceal from everyone and especially his brother.

He has come here as a last resort, desperately hoping for some sign, some clue that Sherlock was indeed alive.

But this 221b, as somber as a mausoleum, had no answer for him.

Mycroft sighed. He had no other choice but to look elsewhere – but where exactly? One thing was sure – he would never stop looking for Sherlock.

_I will find you, brother. Dead or alive, I’ll find you._

He was heading for the door when his gaze fell on a crumpled ball of paper. John certainly intended to throw it in the wastebin next to the doormat, but he has missed his goal and it seemed he didn’t have the time – or the energy – to make a second attempt.

Mycroft let out a soft “tsk” at this and bending over, snatched the slip of paper. He wondered what it was – some invoice the good doctor was unable to pay? A letter to his sister? Or something else?

Without any remorse, he unfolded it.

As soon as he read the first words, he was completely dazed.

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Or should I have started with “Dear ruddy Bastard”? “My beloved nuisance”?_

 

Oh.My.God.

Mycroft couldn’t believe his eyes.

_What I ~~loved~~  liked about you?_

 

_I liked your voice. Do you know how many fantasies have sprung to my mind, whether you were deducing at top speed everything you observed about the visitor who has just sat down in your armchair or teasing me over a meal shared together?_

 

It was a love letter.

A bloody love letter.

 

_Weeks have passed and I’m still waiting for you. For your step in the stairs, for your smile, for your voice saying…_

_Saying everything I need to hear, really._

_So come back to me._

 

On this we are in agreement, Doctor Watson, Mycroft thought.

He shook his head, trying not to be disturbed by the mental images this letter has conjured.

Who knew that Sherlock could inspire such feelings?

He was about to crumple the letter again and throw it definitely this time when the idea entered his head.

It was brilliant – and mad as well, like all brilliant ideas are.

It was everything he had, really.

_Would you be able to resist this lure, Sherlock? I should hope not!_


	2. Chapter I - In Plain Sight

_Five weeks later_

 

Molly has carefully observed the whole set of instructions.

_Take the Northern Line. Get off at Camden Town Station. Follow High Street until you reach Camden Lock. Someone will wait for you there._

Honestly, if the message hasn’t been hidden between the pages of the latest post-mortem report she has received, she would have doubted that it came from Sherlock.

_“If you ever need to get in touch with me, how…”_

_“Trust me, Molly. You’ll know.”_

“I hope so, you damn bastard,” she has muttered.

And there she was, in this damp underground tunnel, where a nasty, musty smell was slowly choking her. The kid guiding her through this maze – a willowy teenager, whose hat was pulled down over his eyes – suddenly stopped.

“He’s over there,” he said before sliding off in the shadows.

“Wait a minute!” she cried “How am I supposed to…”

“Molly?”

This voice. It was the voice she has so often dreamt of, fantasized about when she was in her bed, fondling her breasts before stroking herself just there.

She flushed at this memory before turning her head to the left.

A few feet from her, leaning against a grimy wall, his face revealed thanks to the light of a lonely lamp, Sherlock Holmes was waiting for her.

 

If Molly has ever dreamt of the kind of reunions that romcoms were fond of, this illusion promptly shattered as she came closer. The man in front of her seemed to have aged 10 years in a few weeks – his bloodshot gaze, his hunched shoulders barely hiding the compulsive trembling that shook his whole frame without speaking of the large, bluish bruise blooming on his left cheek… And she could easily guess which other injuries remained hidden under his nondescript clothes.

Molly struggled to reconcile the ghastly sight before her eyes with her personal memories of Sherlock – the brilliant, confident man striding in her lab like it belonged to him, making himself at home.

“You look awful,” she blurted out before biting her lip.

She expected a cutting remark. All she got instead was a quiet “I know”.

He fell silent. She noticed then the slight whistling sound he let out each time he exhaled, the way he was heavily leaning against the wall, as if he was unable to stand without this support.

Molly hesitated. When she was a teenager, her mum used to say “You wear your heart on your sleeve, darling, it’ll bring you nothing but trouble!” She was right as usual, Molly has discovered, one bitter experience after the next.

Friends taking advantage of her when she was at university – “Thanks for the notes, Mol, you’re a peach!” before forgetting her when they were going out.

Men promising her the earth and dumping her a week later with “It’s not you, it’s me” – oldest excuse in the book.

When she met Sherlock, she immediately knew he was different. Brutally honest, a mind driven by curiosity and thirst for knowledge, he seemed to consider her as a colleague, someone who could help him. As if he didn’t see her quiet, demure nature but only her cleverness when she was dealing with the bodies entrusted to her care.

It wasn’t long before she fell under his spell. To his credit, he never gave her any false hope. Even when he was trying to manipulate her – and he generally succeeded – it was done with a kind of boyish charm, something so unlike other men’s attempts at bedding her when she agreed on a date. No wonder then, she thought, she couldn’t stop mooning over him when he was around.

“How are you?” he suddenly asked.

She snorted.

“Don’t tell me you brought me here to make small talk!”

The ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. But his face grew sombre soon afterwards and desperation was shining in his eyes when he said “I need your help, Molly.”

The same words he has told her four months ago, during a late night at Bart’s.

She shivered with anxiety.

 

At the time he first asked for her help, she didn’t think of the price she would have to pay afterwards. Silly of her, really, but all she saw was the fact that for once, he hasn’t asked first John, Lestrade or even Mrs Hudson. No – he has turned to her.

_“Please, Molly…”_

It was enough for her to be taken in, pulled into a web from which she couldn’t be released.

It was after, when she saw John’s devastated face, Mrs Hudson’s tears, the black coffin that she knew to be empty that Molly started to realize what she has done.

To which punishment she has sentenced herself - telling lies until she was utterly sick of them. Keeping the truth from the ones who most needed it.

She started isolating herself, seeking and finding refuge in her work. Gradually severing the links with John, Lestrade, the persons who still were important to her.

She tried doing the same with Mrs Hudson, but the old lady wasn’t so easily deterred.

How many times has she found her on her doorstep with a casserole dish and a ready smile – “I hope you like lamb stew!”?

It was a bloody torture. And she couldn’t stop herself resenting Sherlock for this.

“My help?” she repeated. “Which kind of help do you need now?”

If he noticed his upset voice, he didn’t show it.

He took several false starts before saying “I need you to deliver a message to John.”

“What?”

She hasn’t expected this.

“A message… He believes you’re dead!”

He flinched – something she has never seen him doing before. He looked so affected, it gave her the creeps.

“I know, Molly. I haven’t forgotten.”

“I should hope so! What can you ever say to him? ‘Look John, I’m still alive, it’s all fine!”

She read the answer on his face, before he tried to hide it.

“Oh my…,” she whispered.

 She covered her mouth with her hand, in a desperate attempt to muffle the scream growing in her throat.

She didn’t really listen to his feeble attempts to reason with her – “Molly, hear me out…”

She has lied, she has betrayed her friends’ trust in her and for what? For the illusion of Sherlock’s friendship?

_You’re a fool, Molly Hooper._

“Molly, please! I didn’t know I would come back…”

“Shut up”, she growled.

“You must believe me…”

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

Her scream reverberated on the stone walls. Sherlock finally fell silent, the bafflement still present in his gaze, as if he couldn’t understand why she was so upset.

Despite her being breathless, she laughed. A hysterical sound, which was hurting her even though she couldn’t resist its lure.

She saw Sherlock grinding his teeth, his jaw set in an angry line. A shadow of his old self, a sight which gave her enough strength to stop laughing and say “I warn you, Sherlock Holmes. If you ever hurt again John, Greg or Mrs Hudson, there’ll be hell to pay.”

An empty threat if she ever heard one, but she already felt better saying it.

“Everything I’ve done,” he angrily replied, “was to protect them, you know that!”

“Your protection? It comes with much too high a price. Can you only imagine the consequences for the ones you left behind?”

She wanted to hurt him as much as she could.

“John is… I’ve never seen him so devastated. He put on his façade of brave soldier, but everyone can see how much he is hurting. You…”

“Enough”, Sherlock growled. “Stop it!”

“No. You won’t succeed in intimidating me. Not this time.”

She got closer, nearly coming face to face with him.

“I don’t care about your orders. Not anymore. You have to hear this, whether it is Greg openly weeping at your funeral or Mrs Hudson’s sprained ankle because she fell down the stairs, going up to your flat!”

He startled.

“Sprained ankle?” A light she knew very well suddenly shone in his eyes. “Now _that’s_ interesting…”

Disconcerted by his reaction, Molly went back a few steps. Faced with this man, his unwillingness to understand, whether real or fake, how his behaviour has deeply hurt those who loved him, she found herself recoiling in disgust.

“Find yourself another fool to give your bloody message, then. I quit.”

He stared at her with an intensity which would have left her a stuttering, red-faced mess months ago.

Molly clenched her fists.

“Very well, Miss Hooper. I won’t trouble you anymore.”

She stiffly nodded at this farewell, hoping against all odds she could conceal the pain she was feeling at this moment.

She was already turning on her heels, eager to get out of this hellhole, when she heard “One last favour, Miss Hooper.”

She stopped, but didn’t turn round.

“If you care so deeply about the persons you just mentioned… Don’t breathe a word about it to anyone.”

_Do not talk about me._

_Do not put them in jeopardy._

Hearing this, she felt a new surge of anger but she brought it down enough to reply “I will carry on holding my tongue.”

She started walking away, nearly missing in her haste his whispered “Thank you”.


	3. Chapter 2 - Mrs Hudson's sprained ankle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There he was – demobbed soldier, patientless doctor.  
> A sidekick without any hero to lead him into battle.  
> A man having lost his dearest friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally John's POV!
> 
> As far as I know, the Islington CG does not exist - I've been inspired by Culpeper CG which is very much real and looks like a lovely project!  
> More information here - http://www.culpeper.org.uk/

“Oh John, are you sure that…”

“Absolutely sure, Mrs Hudson,” he hastened to interrupt her. “I’m afraid you’re stuck here for the next two weeks. And that’s a minimum, mind you.”

He got back on his feet, trying to ignore – with mixed results – his landlady who was currently wearing a pout worthy of a sulky four-year-old. He could sympathize with her – as far as he was able to feel something these days.

Or rather something else than the void still growing inside him, beast gnawing with greedy teeth at what was left of his heart.

“But I can’t stay like this!” she wailed. “I’m not some cripple who need to be helped every time she wants to do something!”

He shrugged.

“Actually, you are. And consider yourself lucky you didn’t break your neck falling down these stairs.”

He felt straight away a twinge of remorse when he saw the distress in her eyes. Mrs Hudson has always been an active person – up at first light, taking part in a myriad of social activities and clubs without speaking of her regular visits to her sister.

For her to be suddenly confined to her flat, her injured ankle as well as a part of her calf immobilized in a splint… it was easy to imagine her frustration – without speaking of the physical pain.

He awkwardly patted her knee – any kind of physical contact has recently become quite unbearable to him – and said “Your sister comes tonight, does she? And in the meantime, you can rely on Mrs Turner next door…”

“And you, John. You’ve been a great help.” Mrs Hudson added with a faint smile.

“Oh. Yeah, if you say so…”

Truth was, he has forgotten that anyone could see him as someone to be relied upon. Especially after the incident with Nurse Idiot, three weeks ago.

It seemed that yelling at her until she burst into tears in a waiting room packed with patients was not considered as a sensible behaviour for a doctor.

“I see in your file you’re entitled to several days off…”

“Sarah please, don’t… I still can...”

“I don’t think so, John” she has said with a smile which didn’t reach her eyes. “Now would be a good time to take them.”

There he was – demobbed soldier, patientless doctor.

A sidekick without any hero to lead him into battle.

A man having lost his dearest friend.

“… if you don’t mind, love?”

He startled, blushing when he realised he has once again lost the thread. It happened more and more often these days, putting a strain on his already scarce social interactions. John knew he should pay more attention to these blank periods, when everything and everyone seemed to dissolve before his very eyes, leaving only memories which were as cherished as they were hurtful to him. However, as for a lot of things in his life, he really couldn’t muster enough energy to care about it.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson, I didn’t listen…”

“Yeah, I know,” she said with a worried little sigh, which made him feel suddenly an inch tall. For a moment, he was afraid she would insist again on having a “chat” with him like she has tried more than once in the immediate wake of Sherlock’s death.

Inviting herself upstairs with a cup of tea, a carrot cake, glancing at him in a way she certainly considered as stealthy but which didn’t fool him in the least. Ready to pounce on the tiniest clue indicating he wanted to confide to her.

But John didn’t want to talk. He only wanted to lie on his bed, curled up under the covers and to forget. To delete everything about what he has been forced to see.

_“Look at me, John! Look at me!”_

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to stay focused on the present.

Mrs Hudson. The 221A. The chair’s back under his fingers – and when exactly has he started to lean on it, as if he needed a material support, something real to keep himself from drifting away in the past?

“John?”

He swallowed several times before replying “Yes. I’m here.”

And he really was. Here, with her – at least for the moment.

“I was wondering… Would you be so kind as to help me once again?”

“You know you don’t have to ask, Mrs Hudson,” he gently said.

If he couldn’t talk to her, at least, he could do things for her while she was forced to stay here. She thanked him with a smile “Well, it’s not something I would ask to anyone, but I think it might interest you… And really, John, you could do with a bit of fresh air, you’re much too pale!”

A fleeting memory of Dartmoor danced before his eyes. He blinked.

“Unless you’re trying to send me away from London…”

She tutted her disapproval, taking his feeble joke seriously.

“Don’t be daft, young man! It’s about the Islington Community Garden.”

“What?”

He didn’t expect this. A community garden? His landlady rolled her eyes, as if he was a pupil being deliberately obtuse.

“Where do you think the strawberries this summer were coming from? And the lettuce last week? I certainly didn’t buy them at Tesco!”

“You mean you… cultivated them?”

It struck him as a very weird idea. Even when he was a child, living in a house with a garden, he didn’t remember any of his parents gardening. Hell, he couldn’t even remember his Dad mowing the lawn.

And cultivating fruit and vegetables here in the middle of London? He considered it quite a feat – or a bloody miracle!

“I didn’t know you have such green fingers…”

She shrugged, quite obviously pleased with herself.

“It helps me clearing my head, you know. I find it quite relaxing, to be honest. And the team of volunteers, they’re such lovely people, always ready to help you when you get a question or a problem!”

“I’m glad for you, really, but I don’t see how…”

She looked at him beseechingly and John suddenly had a very bad feeling.

“You see, I’m a plot holder in this community garden and it brings its share of duties. Of course, I know that a volunteer can replace me for the next weeks, but I wouldn’t like to give them even more work, they’re already snowed under at the moment… So, would you mind terribly if I put your name down for some of the weekly chores?”

“Mrs Hudson, I don’t…”

“No, hear me out before you refuse. It’s not hard labour, I promise you! Watering the plants, sweeping through the alleys, keeping an eye on the eventual pests... Do you still have your old Browning, dear?” she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

He couldn’t help snorting at the idea of firing a shot at some unfortunate mouse for the sake of a few tulips. A sure way to find himself locked away in an institution.

“OK, I’ll think about it, how does it sound, hum?”

She beamed.

“Splendid! (She immediately started counting on her fingers, wriggling about in her chair.) Oh, I shall give you a word for Hussein, he’s in charge of the volunteer team, a charming man, he’ll explain everything to you… And you will need the tap key of course!”

John smothered a groan. He got the feeling the choice has already been made for him.


	4. Chapter 3 - Let Me Forget You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s fine that you love my voice. I love yours too. Or the fact that you love every second spent with me. I do love it too. In fact, I… I love you, John.”  
> He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Surely he must be hallucinating the whole thing, there’s no other explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, another chapter heavy with angst... Don't kill me please :)   
> I promise it'll get better very soon!

John let out a small sigh, full of relief. Nothing better than a hot bath after a long walk in London, which has left him completely drenched to the skin, an unexpected downpour having caught him in near Piccadilly Circus.

He could already feel the aching muscles getting warm and relaxed again. He lazily stretched out his arm to grasp the glass of red wine waiting for him on the nearest shelf. The slightly bitter tang of alcohol on his tongue, mixed with an unexpected fruity sweetness, reminded him of his first night at Angelo’s, when…

No.

He made a conscious effort to get rid of this memory. If only he could delete them…

_Do you really want this, John? To erase completely our time together, to live as if our friendship has never existed?_

“Friendship…” he muttered before swallowing another mouthful of wine. “Married to my work…My ass!”

Only silence answered him.

John closed his eyes.

Let me enjoy this moment, he begged his subconscious. Let me be at peace just for a little while.

He laid his head on the cold, baby-blue tile.

Let me forget you.

 

Soft footsteps in the hall, breaking the silence in the flat. John frowns. The only person who got the key is Mrs Hudson and she is in no state at the moment to go upstairs. Besides, from what he can hear from the intruder’s gait, he – or she – certainly does not suffer from a sprained ankle.

He calls out her name, just to be sure.

No one answers.

He sits still in the bath, listening.

The footsteps have disappeared.

Another hallucination, then.

He sighs.

The bathroom door suddenly opens with a creak.

John startles, before his reflexes kick in, adrenaline flooding his blood. No one will catch him unawares in his bloody bath and…

A soft click. Light is out.

He has no time to cry for help, though.

“John…”

This voice.

His voice.

He remains frozen to the spot, half-standing, the cooling water licking his calves. In his mind, disbelief is warring against kindling hope.

“John... It’s me.”

He can hear him breathing hard, as if he has run all the way from the cold gates of Death til Baker Street’s safe haven. He’s getting closer, John realizes with a start.

“You’re dead.”

He wants to say so many more words, all the words who have piled up in his mind since he witnessed the fall, but his mouth, his tongue can only utter this “You’re dead” over and over.

A warm puff on his naked, wet skin. John shivers.

“Can a dead man take you in his arms, then?”

He may mean it as an affectionate comeback, a sentence worthy of some melodramatic finale, when the comrades-in-arms get reunited at last. But John can only hear the raw desperation of his voice. The unintended cruelty hiding in that question hits him like a ton of bricks and John finds himself suddenly stripped of every mask, every façade he could ever hope to put on. He lets out a broken sob. His legs give way, he stumbles against the rim of the bathtub. He barely feels the sharp pain in his kneecap, his mind, his heart struggling with the sudden grief and incomprehension.

“John!”

He is suddenly wrapped up in a warm embrace. Strong arms tighten their grip round him.

“I got you, John, it’s okay… Everything’s okay…”

He wants to protest, to scream that no, it’s not okay, it never was, but he can’t say that aloud, can he?

He finds himself lifted off the ground, his own fingers clutching the rough fabric of the Belstaff coat.

And this voice, _his_ voice pouring out comforting words, the only lifeline in the dark to which John hangs on with all his strength – “I’ve got you, John, I’ve got you and I won’t let you go. Not this time. I’m here, John. I’m here for you.”

They both fall down to the ground, Sherlock’s body cushioning John’s fall. He is naked sitting on his friend’s lap and he doesn’t give a damn about it. In the dark everything seems so easy. So intense. Like Sherlock’s deep breaths, ruffling John’s hair; His chest rising and falling under John’s cheek; His warmth seeping in John’s chilly skin.

His hands cradling him, protecting him.

He’s alive.

Sherlock’s alive.

John chases out the “why?” which have already started piling into his mind. There would be a time for answers. Not now, though. Not when he has barely begun to realize he didn’t lose him, after all.

“John? Are you…?”

How he has missed this deep baritone. John nuzzles up to him. Sherlock’s fingers tighten on his skin.

“John…”

“Yeah?”

“I… I have to tell you something.”

Despite his inner turmoil, John can’t help but chuckle.

“William Sherlock Holmes,” he replies, savouring every syllable, “you owe me a whole speech…”

“I read your letter.”

Accelerating heartbeat.

Slight stuttering in his speech.

“My… Oh.”

The bloody letter he wrote – thanks a lot, Ella, for that one!

He feels his whole face flushing with embarrassment.

“But how did you…”

“It’s not important. John… What you said…”

His blush deepens further while he’s desperately trying to find some excuse to justify his words. Problem is, he can’t find any. And he would love to say the opposite, but he does remember every one of his words. Words which have popped into his mind for a long time, first at random, then more frequently, until they became whole sentences. Sentences that he should never have written it down.

“Sherlock, I…”

“Shhh. It’s all fine. Really. (In the darkness, a large hand finds one of his, holding it tight.) Trust me.”

John doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. The silence grows between them. A silence loaded with tension. Sherlock is becoming restless and John dreads what will come next.

“In fact,” Sherlock whispers “it’s more than fine.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock’s voice becomes raspier, his fingers slowly stroking John’s.

“It’s fine that you love my voice. I love yours too. Or the fact that you love every second spent with me. I do love it too. In fact, I… I love you, John.”

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Surely he must be hallucinating the whole thing, there’s no other explanation.

“I come back because you asked me to. Because I couldn’t read your letter without calling myself a fool and a bloody idiot. I have been so selfish, leaving you behind, letting you believe that…”

It’s too much. Too much and not enough at the same time.

John doesn’t want to hear him anymore.

He only wants to feel.

Feel that Sherlock is alive and – above all – _in love_ with him.

“We’ll talk later,” he growls before leaning on his knees.

“Where are you… Oh!”

John doesn’t let him finish. He turns round, straddling his friend – his lover, his mind whispers – and finally gives free rein to every one of his instincts regarding Sherlock.

And they are many. A very long list, in truth.

Thrusting his fingers into this wild, curly mane.

Worshipping with his lips, his tongue the fair skin which has appeared in so many of his fantasies.

“John…”

Kissing that mouth, tasting him like a fine wine before forgetting his last traces of restraint and devouring him.

“Tell me you love me. Tell me!”

“John, God! I love you, love you, love you…”

 

_I love you…_

He couldn’t breathe anymore.

John woke up with a jolt, spitting out the tepid water having infiltrated his mouth and his nose. He leant on his elbows, red-faced, mouth open to take in a deep lungful of air. It’s not until his heart beat again at a steadier pace, his uncomfortable arousal trickling out of his veins, that he realized what had happened.

A dream. Once again – only a dream.

Sherlock hasn’t come back from the dead.

He didn’t take him into his arms, didn’t comfort him, didn’t say all these _I love you_ still whispering in John’s mind, desperate to be heard.

The blow hit him as surely as this bullet all these years ago in Afghanistan.

He didn’t even find the strength to hide his face in his hands.

He simply bowed his head and cried.

He finally let the tears streaming down his face, cleansing him of every time he didn’t allow himself to express his grief. Every time someone (“ _Don’t bawl like a sissy, Johnny, take it like a man!” “Yes, Daddy_ ”) or something ( _The screams of a young soldier on the battlefield; Sherlock’s coffin in its black austerity_ ) has stopped him from “making a scene”, as his Mum would have said.

He cried for what he has lost, for what could have happened, for the life he has shared with the man he was still in love with, for all the possibilities which died with Sherlock, when he fell to his death.

He cried until the water of his bath definitely lost its warmth; until all what could come out of his mouth was dry hiccups.

Only then he got up, dried himself off, put on a dressing gown and left the bathroom.

Sitting in his armchair in front of the fire, John knew he couldn’t go on like this. He was already becoming mad, nearly drowning in his bloody bath because he couldn’t stop dreaming, couldn’t stop living in the past.

Enough, he thought. It’s over.

He stared at the living room where he could discern, if he wanted, thousands and thousands of traces left by Sherlock. From the bullet holes in the wall until the chipped mug, on which Einstein was forever sticking out his tongue, in the draining rack.

What exactly was he trying to do, living in this flat where memories were still haunting him? Keeping it clean and tidy, like some mausoleum to be filled again with joy and life when Sherlock will return?

He let out a humourless chuckle.

Staring at the flames dancing in the grate, John felt he was standing at a crossroads – either he decided to stay here, hoping against all odds for some kind of miracle. Or he could accept the unavoidable fact – Sherlock was dead.

While he, John, was still alive.

A fact he has forgotten over the past few months.

He should move on. Looking for another flat, another job.

Making new acquaintances.

Even joining the volunteer team at the Community Garden, as Mrs Hudson suggested earlier. Something to keep him busy at any rate.

Severing gradually all the ties which still bound him up to Baker Street, the 221B and his life with Sherlock, until there was nothing left but fond memories.

He clenched his hands into fists. No doubt it would be very hard to do so. In fact, in comparison with this, his recovery time after he has been shot in Afghanistan and demobbed afterwards would look like a walk in the park.

But he needed this, he realized. He needed the closure on what has been one of the most brilliant, craziest chapters of his life.

He could do this. He was a survivor – he has proven it to himself enough times to know it to be true.

And it started tonight, he thought.

With renewed energy, he started methodically searching the whole flat for the letter. The letter he should never have written. The only weakness he couldn’t leave behind when he will move on. The idea that some stranger could come upon it, discover his most personal thoughts and feelings concerning Sherlock… It was unthinkable.

He looked everywhere, combing through every paper, emptying the wastebasket even if he knew he didn’t get rid of it that way.

To no avail.

His letter has disappeared.


	5. Chapter 4 - The Islington Community Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He would never forget his life with Sherlock, but maybe, as time went by, he could let it fade into the background."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said before, as far as I know, the Islington CG doesn't exist. I was inspired by the Culpeper CG, whose website you can find here:http://www.culpeper.org.uk/  
> Of course, every mistake is mine :)

As soon as John reached the wrought iron gates, he felt at ease. Above his head, a large board welcomed the bystanders to the Community garden. It was ensconced in the middle of a larger park/playground area, which was quite obviously a hit among the families of the neighbourhood, if John was correctly assessing the happy cries of children around him.

“Hello there! You must be John!” a tall, slim, dark-skinned man put his phone back in his pocket and greeted with a warm smile. John felt himself smiling back.

They shook hands.

“And you’re Hussein, right?”

“Quite right! Emma has told me a lot about you…”

“Emma? Oh, you mean Mrs Hudson…”

“Yeah,” Hussein admitted with an impish grin. “No need to be formal here, we’re a small community. I hope it doesn’t disturb you?”

“It’s okay, really”, John said, already feeling a bit foolish.

Fortunately for his nerves, Hussein didn’t dwell on that, suggesting instead “How about I show you over the place? And then we’ll have a cup of tea in our little hut!”

“Sounds splendid,” John answered.

 

 

“We currently have 50 plots, which have all been granted at the moment. Actually, I think Emma has received the next to last.”

“Really? That’s impressive. I’ve no idea that a project like yours could be so successful…”

“It’s not really my project, you know, we have a committee comprised of eleven members and we take decisions together. Everyone gets to say his piece, it doesn’t matter if you have been a member for two years or two months…”

Hussein suddenly stopped, rubbing his hands in a nervous gesture.

“Sorry. My wife’s always saying when I start talking about the garden, I cannot keep my trap shut about it!”

“You really don’t have to apologize,” John whispered, suddenly choked by emotion. He couldn’t help but recognize in Hussein’s voice, vibrant with enthusiasm, the same unadulterated passion which has shone in Sherlock’s eyes until his fall.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory of those pale eyes, staring lifelessly at the blue sky above.

 To disguise his lack of composure, he pretended to rummage in his pockets for a tissue. He didn’t know if Hussein was fooled by this, but he didn’t make any remark about it, patiently waiting for John before resuming the visit. John was pathetically grateful to him for it.

 

It seemed that Hussein’s pride in the Community Garden was not only justified, it was also shared by every member that the two men bumped into during their walk. People were quietly tending to their plots or the common gardens, focused on the plants in their hands, handling them with care; A little further, two men were pruning a lush rose bush, the easy banter between them bringing about a bittersweet ache in John’s heart. But this feeling quickly passed away, the overall friendliness of the garden’s volunteers showing in every smile, every “Hello” aimed at Hussein, who in return introduced John to everyone. After weeks of scarce social interaction, John felt a bit overwhelmed by all this attention – without speaking of all the new names to keep in mind – but he did his best for Mrs Hudson’s sake. At the end of the visit, while chatting with some members of Hussein’s team over a cup of tea, he realized he has been effortlessly drawn into these ordinary people’s lives, with their complaints over noisy neighbours or proudly presenting photos of their children.

“That’s my Rosie, top of her class, bless her!”

“You’re a doctor? You must have seen all kinds of interesting cases…”

They were curious, but they weren’t nosey, trying to pry into his personal life. No one asked him if he was married or if he would like to have children. No one tried to win him over at all costs to join the volunteer team. When he left the tea hut, as they called the premises intended for informal meetings, where the kettle always seemed to be put on, John felt comfortable, genially replying to the cheery round of “Goodbye!” and “See you soon”.

“I’ll walk you back to the gate,” Hussein said.

Both of them strolled away, a peaceful silence growing between them. It was really a nice place, John thought, observing the still blooming shrubs and bushes. He was reminded of Mrs Hudson’s words when she has talked about the garden “It helps me clearing my head, you know. I find it quite relaxing, to be honest.” She was completely right. Maybe he could take a leaf out of her book and see if it also worked for him. After all, he got nothing to lose.

They passed in front of a plot of land so exuberant with flowers and tall grass it almost looked unkempt.

“It’s our wildlife area,” Hussein said, breaking the silence. “You will be amazed at seeing all the insects, birds and other beasts which have found refuge over there!”

John smothered a snort, thinking of the Mrs Hudson’s joke about his old Browning. Now wasn’t really the time to say it aloud, even in jest.

“We really hope next year to set up a beehive over there…” Hussein abruptly stopped when he saw John’s stricken face. “Oh, I see… You’re allergic?”

John nodded, not trusting himself if he dared to open his mouth.

“Don’t worry, you’re not the only one!” Hussein replied. “Of course, right now, it’s only at the planning stage, but we hope that the town council will support us…”

Not really looking where he was going, still reeling at the idea of a beehive – he could almost imagine Sherlock’s enthusiast reaction if he were here next to him, listening to Hussein’s explanations – John stumbled over a little sign, which has been driven into the ground. He caught himself just in time thanks to the sturdy trunk of an oak tree.

Hussein called out his name, taking a step toward him. “You’re all right?”

“Yeah… Sorry, I’m not usually so clumsy!”

“Don’t worry about it, everyone here has at least tripped once over those little buggers…” Hussein picked up the little board, that John’s fall has sent flying a few feet away from them. A large “8” was written on it.

“What are they used for?” John asked, rubbing his hands.

“We have numbered every area in the garden. Easier to say that we need to lay out the flowerbed in the plot sixty-four than to describe the plot in front of the waterfall, next to the blue-and-red hydrangeas, after all!” Hussein replied with a laugh. “No risk of misunderstanding each other.”

“I can imagine.”

 

From this moment, the Islington Community Garden was integrated into John’s routine. He went over there twice a week, greeting the volunteers and other plot holders chatting in the tea hut before tending to Mrs Hudson’s little garden. He learned how to differentiate the weed from the other plants, how to tackle them without harsh chemicals. He also learned never to say again “Roundup” among his fellow gardeners.

He sometimes lent a hand for harder work, helping those who couldn’t lift up a barrowful of earth or when the wooden compost bin must be cleaned out.

And when, at the end of the day, he was sore all over, wincing in pain every time he took a step forward, John couldn’t be bothered complaining. It was a good kind of pain, bringing with it weariness which distracted him from his memories of Sherlock scattered all over the flat. He was sleeping better at any rate, his nightmares being reduced to mere shadows, not powerful enough to wake him up. He still endured bouts of depression and loneliness, but the idea of making a fresh start – even if finding a flat adequate for his needs with his modest means was quite difficult – helped him getting over it.

He would never forget his life with Sherlock, but maybe, as time went by, he could let it fade into the background.

 

 

“John! John!”

He raised his head, pausing in his struggle to uproot an old stump of lilac tree – who knew it could resist so valiantly against all attempts to dislodge it? He panted for breath, wiping the sweat off his brow with his handkerchief. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Meriem, a sweet, middle-aged woman, hurrying toward him.

“Need help with something?” he asked, smiling at her.

She shook his head, her fingers unconsciously checking that no stray lock of hair has escaped from her hijab, before replying “I just wanted to know if you were still interested in the next workshop on Sunday with the Elfrida society?”

Glimpsing her puzzled face, she let out a small laugh.

“Didn’t you see the paper I left in your mailbox?”

“My… Oh right. I’m afraid I forgot again to check it, you know.”

“No problem! You will let me know if you want to join in?”

He automatically nodded, his mind already focused back on the fight he was currently having with the old roots.

 

Only when he was satisfied with his progress, his sweaty clothes clinging to his skin, did he think to check his mailbox – or rather Mrs Hudson’s. Hussein has shown him, next to the tea hut, the neat little row of wooden mailboxes, which have been created last spring during a series of workshops with the children of the neighbouring schools. Every plot holder got one and the volunteer team used them to leave messages, leaflets for the next meetings and so on. John unlocked his, taking out a small bundle of documents and promising himself to check more often in the future.

He was going to close the mailbox when he discerned, at the bottom of the box, a small object. He grasped it carefully. It was a small handmade car, carved into a dark, rough bark. Red berries glued in place made up the four wheels. It was really ingenious, he thought, turning it round in his palm, he wondered who…

He froze.

On the front door on the driver’s side someone has carved three letters.

J.H.W.

His initials.


	6. Chapter 5 - The Yew Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shrugged before saying “My gut feeling tells me that they have found out who was behind the attacks in Eastern Europe. And they intend to make them pay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens :)

He walked back home slowly, his mind buzzing with all kinds of possibilities, from the most logical ones to the most far-fetched, concerning the small wooden object currently holed up in his pocket.

Was it a gift from one of the children attending the community garden, too shy to give it personally? (but he didn’t really get the chance yet to spend time with them, so why would they give him a gift? It didn’t make sense.)

Was it a joke, a trick from one of the volunteers? (A completely illogical assumption. From what he has seen of the community’s members, he couldn’t believe they would behave in such a way towards him.)

Or has someone made a mistake, getting the wrong mailbox? (How did he explain then the carving of his initials?)

Walking back up Baker Street, he came to the only logical conclusion – the “gift”, if he can describe it like this, was intended for him. Someone has slipped it inside the mailbox, perfectly aware of the fact that sooner or later, John will find it.

Someone who knew that he has recently started to attend the Community Garden.

He couldn’t help but darting nervous glances around him.

Was he being followed? And for which motive?

Has he become, without knowing it, the subject of one of Mycroft’s operations?

John frowned. He supposed Mycroft could have pulled this trick on him… but why? After Sherlock’s death, he hasn’t heard of Mycroft anymore and anyway this kind of cryptic message – if it was really one – wasn’t like him.

He looked up and down the street but no black, posh car was in sight. Not that he expected one, in truth.

Lost in thought, he trudged across the pavement, already groping for his keys when he heard the chime of his mobile.

He stopped to pull the device free from his pocket. The screen glowing at the touch of his fingers sent a thrill of excitement coursing through his veins – how many times has he stared at his phone, reading a text from Sherlock?

He couldn’t help but feeling a bit disappointed when he read _Fancy a pint tonight?_

Good old Greg, always ready for a visit at his favourite pub – as well as trying to nudge John back into the dating game, hoping without a doubt to live vicariously through him, since he and his latest girlfriend were back together.

John wondered what Sherlock would have said about this.

“Stop it!” he muttered to himself before texting back a terse _Yes_ and unlocking the 221’s front door.

 

He was going to put the kettle on when he heard the repetitive thud of Mrs Hudson’s crutches up the stairs. He sighed with frustration – the damn woman was going to kill herself one of these days! – before rushing to open the door and help her.

“What are you trying to do?” he asked her in the sternest voice he could muster. “You only had to call out to me when I was in the hall, I would gladly have kept you company downstairs!”

“Oh hush John, my doctor said I need to take exercise,” she replied, hobbling in the flat before perching on the edge of a seat, while John closed the door behind her and relieved her of the crutches. “Besides, my sister is driving me spare, I’m more and more tempted to strangle her. I definitely need some time off!”

John gave a snort of laughter, memories of his shared childhood with Harry stirring through his mind.

“Make yourself at home, then. I’ll bring tea and biscuits in a couple of minutes.”

“Very good idea! And in the meantime, you can tell me what is going on at Islington…”

Complying with her request, John told her the latest news about the community garden and the volunteer team. He tried to get lost into the most mundane events of her lives, chatting about the projects that Hussein wanted to organise next year. But his thoughts kept gravitating back towards what he has discovered in the mailbox. More than once he opened his mouth to reveal it to his landlady. No doubt she could give him some interesting insight into this gift and what it meant – if it was supposed to mean something. But some unknown instinct held him back.

Or perhaps it was the thought which has started to take shape in his mind – a thought which made his heart constrict and pulse hard in his chest.

So John remained silent about it.

He was recounting one of Meriem’s amusing tales about the kitten she has recently adopted at the rescue centre when he removed his hand from his pocket a little too brusquely and sent something flying. A little red something which neatly landed on Mrs Hudson’s lap, startling her, her cup of tea clattering against the saucer’s china.

She let out a soft “Oh!” before grasping it gently between her fingers. John blanched when he saw it was one of the berries having been glued before to the wooden little car he still got in his pocket. It must have come unstuck when he was walking home, he thought.

Mrs Hudson frowned, examining it.

“It’s a yew berry,” she said before glancing at John. “I hope you didn’t intend to taste it, the seed is toxic, you know…”

“I’m perfectly aware of that,” he snapped, calling himself a bloody fool for not having recognised sooner this fruit.

“No need to get stroppy with me, young man,” she berated him, making him feel like a scolded four-year old. “I know you’re a very good doctor, but I don’t expect you to know everything, especially as regards botany.”

Without expecting an answer – which was just as well since John wasn’t willing to give one – she carried on “You must have picked it up when you were working near the yew tree at the garden…”

Seeing John’s puzzled face, she rolled her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it? For sure it isn’t quite as impressive as some older specimens, but…”

He tuned her out.

Did the “gift” come from this specific tree? Or was it just a strange coincidence?

Mrs Hudson paused for breath and John took swiftly advantage of this.

“Another cup of tea?”

 

“You’re sure you don’t want to try your luck with the looker over there?” Lestrade whispered in his ear, giving John a nudge for the third time since he has entered the pub.

He smothered a sigh. He knew Lestrade didn’t mean any harm, trying to take his mind off his loneliness and the grief he still felt.

He glanced at the woman, who was animatedly talking to a friend. She was attractive for sure, but he didn’t want to walk to her and try to chat her up. As for many things, Sherlock’s death seemed to have brought John’s desire for romance to an end.

He swiftly chased away this depressing thought.

“Sorry, Greg, not in the mood for chasing skirt tonight. What’s up at the Yard?”

“You really want me to talk shop?” Lestrade whined. “I haven’t drunk enough for this.”

With a chuckle, John raised his hand, attracting the bartender’s attention and ordering a second beer.

“It’s on me this time.”

“Nice of you, mate,” Lestrade replied with a tired smile.

“Don’t mention it.”

They drank in silence, a comfortable comradeship which gave John the opportunity to have a closer look at his friend.

The dark circles under Greg’s eyes as well as the lines of stress creasing his face were nothing new for the DI, as far as John knew him. But the anxious weariness shining in his dark gaze or his reluctance to talk about what was going on at the Yard, when he usually didn’t shy away from describing his current cases to John, made him pause.

He wondered how to bring up the question before deciding to take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

Greg didn’t reply immediately, emptying his glass in two gulps before putting it down on the table.

“Nothing,” he finally said. “Or at least nothing I can’t handle.”

John didn’t want to pry, really, but on the other hand, he couldn’t be satisfied with this kind of answer.

“Is your wife still trying to…”

“God forbid!” Greg cried out, wrinkling his nose. “It’s nothing personal, I promise you. It’s just that…”

He guiltily glanced at John, whispering “I miss him.”

A confession which left John shaken to the core. No need to ask to whom this “him” referred. He swallowed several times before answering “You’re allowed to miss him, you know. You also were his friend.”

Greg let out a mirthless snort before smoothing out his expression.

“I’m sorry to have brought this up, it’s just that sometimes, whenever a cab stops near a crime scene, I expect to see him making a dash towards us, hurling abuse at Anderson and loudly saying we’re all idiots…”

“Yeah. He really did know how to make friends…”

They had a quiet laugh together, taking a trip down memory lane, remembering with a kind of gruff fondness Sherlock’s abrasive remarks and most absurd experiments. And if John felt his heart still overwhelmed with grief from time to time, he also found himself enjoying this discussion, sharing with Greg his memories of the madman who was still haunting him.

“To tell you the truth,” Greg started, his face gradually closing off, “I could really use Sherlock’s help right now.”

John felt an unpleasant shiver running through him at these words.

“Tricky case?”

“Not per se. It isn’t clear-cut but… There is trouble heading this way. Big trouble.”

“You’re turning into Macbeth in your old age?” John tried to lighten his mood. “ _By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes?_ ”

“Maybe. (He gave a loud sigh.) Moriarty might have killed himself, but his network of minions is still active, you know. Even if they recently suffered heavy losses.”

John couldn’t stop himself asking “How so?” even if hearing Moriarty’s name filled him with a heady mix of disgust and fear.

“I got my hands on some hush-hush documents,” Greg whispered. “A killing spree recently occurred in Eastern Europe, clearly aimed at several unsavoury contacts that we suspected before of being in Moriarty’s debt. It abruptly stopped two months ago in Byelorussia. As far as I know, no one was arrested.”

His low voice was punctuated by the rhythmic tap of his fingernails against his empty glass.

“Of course, it has deeply upset the whole organisation – if I can use this word. Some took advantage of this to get some old scores settled, the kind of thing you usually see when a boss kicked the bucket…”

All this talk of a shadowy world he has half-forgotten after Sherlock passed away reminded John of the electric tension which has permeated the last days before the final confrontation with Moriarty. This peculiar feeling that Sherlock was as unattainable as ever and so vulnerable at the same time. Or the way he was always staring at John, opening his mouth as if he was on the verge of saying something important…

_“Look at me, John!”_

He shook his head. Sherlock has finally opted to remain silent, to keep him in the dark about what he had thought in his last moments. This lack of trust in him still rankled with him.

“But I think now that they changed their tactics,” Greg carried on, oblivious of John’s train of thought.

“What do you mean?”

“A large part of Moriarty’s network seems to have gathered here, in London. We do not have any proof yet, but some signs do not lie.”

He shrugged before saying “My gut feeling tells me that they have found out who was behind the attacks in Eastern Europe. And they intend to make them pay.”

 

It was a clear night and John enjoyed it, walking back to 221b after having said goodbye to Greg. However, what the DI has confided it in his care made him feel ill at ease. To his shame he found himself jumping at shadows, his imagination playing havoc with his nerves. He berated himself for being so easily freaked out – it didn’t bode well for the nightmares which still haunted him at night. Nevertheless he gave a sigh of relief when he closed behind him his flat’s door. His gaze immediately focused on the wooden car he has found in the mailbox and left on the coffee table after Mrs Hudson’s departure.

A neat little mystery to distract him before going to bed.

He gently took it in his hand, his forefinger stroking the three letters carved in the wood.

J.H.W.

He couldn’t believe it wasn’t meant for him.

A memory, clad in Sherlock's voice, stirred through his mind.

“ _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_.”

“Need more data”, he muttered before sitting in his armchair and picking up his laptop.

Where to begin? Maybe with the yew berry identified by Mrs Hudson? And if, John thought, the whole gift has been carved into yew?

He googled it, clicking on the first link at the top of the page.

Yew or _Taxus Baccata_ as Wikipedia names it, before describing quite thoroughly the tree and its many properties. Mrs Hudson wasn’t wrong when she said that the seed was toxic – in fact, nearly everything in the yew tree was poisonous. No wonder then that it was closely associated with death.

John frowned.

Was the object intended as a threat? A bad omen?

“Get a fucking grip, Watson.”

He couldn’t let himself be spooked by such a silly little thing, could he?

He skimmed through the rest of the Wikipedia page.

His gaze was suddenly drawn to this sentence – “ _In many cultures, the yew tree with his exceptional longevity is also considered as a symbol of the transcendence of death_.”


	7. Chapter 6 - A New Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think your landlady got herself a secret admirer!”  
> A mischievous twinkle appeared in Hussein’s eyes.  
> “Unless it’s meant for you?” he asked, stirring sugar into his cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a bit of action! (no, not this kind of action - but it's getting closer)

_Two days later_

 

John has barely set foot in the tea hut when he heard “I think your landlady got herself a secret admirer!”

A mischievous twinkle appeared in Hussein’s eyes.

“Unless it’s meant for you?” he asked, stirring sugar into his cup.

Meriem gave him a light swat with a towel.

“Stop teasing the poor man!” she cried out, bringing a wave of good-natured laughter among the other volunteers. “Don’t worry, John, it’s a lovely bouquet! I’m sure Emma would love it.”

John regained enough self-control to muster a smile.

“Of course.”

“Go on, take a look!” Hussein said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat himself.

John barely listened to him, turning around and going out once again in the muddy alley.

Another gift, then. He wanted to scream with frustration. Which kind of sick fuck was playing hide-and-seek with him? To which end?

During a second he was tempted to phone Lestrade and tell him everything. Only the fear of being laughed at – the memory of derisive “Freaks” uttered by Donovan made him cringe – held him back.

Reaching the row of mailboxes, the dark wood glistening after the last shower, he found straight away what has aroused the curiosity of the community garden’s team.

A little bunch of blue flowers was sticking out from Mrs Hudson’s mailbox.

John approached it slowly, finding back his reflexes of soldier, back in Afghanistan, when he had to enter an area which had not been yet secured. If anyone had seen him at this moment, he would certainly have come across as completely ridiculous, considering suspiciously this inoffensive bouquet as if a bomb was hidden in it. But John didn’t care.

His heart was pounding in his chest and despite the slightly cold weather, he felt himself working up a sweat.

Step by step, he got closer to his target, until he could have picked it up if he wanted to.

Instead, he forced himself to wait, examining carefully the little blue flowers. This time Mrs Hudson’s botanic knowledge won’t be needed, he thought. He could at least recognize forget-me-nots when he saw them.

Neatly tied with a piece of blue string, the bouquet also included a “Get Well Soon!” card. John noticed it hasn’t been put together by a florist – that much was obvious, with the lack of plastic wrapping. The flowers have been chosen and assembled with care, but it was still amateur work.

No wonder Hussein and the others were joking about a secret admirer. However, John knew better. The person who has left this bouquet was the same who has slipped earlier in the week the wooden little car, with “J.H.W” carved on it, in his mailbox. He would have staked his life on it.

He finally reached out, picking up the gift. He first turned up the card, which was blank, before focusing his attention on the string. It was a common type, the kind which must have been available in every DIY store.

John let out a small sigh. What was he trying to do, piecing together the elusive clues left by his mysterious stalker? He was no sleuth, and certainly not able to hold a candle to Sherlock’s deductive reasoning.

_You see but do not observe._

“Kindly fuck off,” he muttered under his breath.

A sharp, chemical smell suddenly wafted over his face, assailing his nose before triggering his memory. He has sniffed it before and under atrocious circumstances, if he believed the fear running through his veins. Heart racing, he bent his head forward. Panic engulfed him as soon as he recognized the irritating, eye-watering smell of chlorine permeating the string.

With an inarticulate cry he flung away the little bouquet, as memories of being taken hostage by Moriarty – being reduced to nothing but a pawn in the cat-and-mouse game Moriarty was playing with Sherlock – came back to him.

He stood there, panting for breath, a single thought running through his head.

He was being threatened.

 

Back in 221b, he cursed himself for a fool.

Had he not been warned by Greg earlier? After all, he has said that a large part of the criminal network put together by Moriarty, come under his yoke, has gathered in London.

That they were looking for the mysterious avengers who have attacked them in Eastern Europe.

Was it so far-fetched to imagine they would also take this opportunity to settle some old scores left as a legacy by their former boss? That they would find a way to silence definitely the last witness of the deadly battle between Sherlock and Moriarty? John wouldn’t be there to tell the tale of Sherlock’s last stroke of brilliance, resulting in the suicide of his enemy on St Bart’s roof.

He snorted – it was ironic to think he might be killed for something he didn’t know, as Sherlock hasn’t confided in him before falling to his death.

Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

He chased this thought away.

It wasn’t time anymore to dwell on the past and lament his friend’s death.

It was time to act.

If anyone has made the mistake to think he was easy prey, he would make them pay dearly for it.

 

He went directly upstairs, in his room, doing his best to ignore the shivers still racking his frame as well as the unsettling feeling his discovery at the garden this morning has left him. He unlocked the little safe where he kept a few of his belongings as his passport and grasped his old Browning. He checked that the gun was still loaded, his fingers lovingly stroking the cold steel, before putting it in his holster. John instantly felt a bit better.

He didn’t intend to kill anyone – he wasn’t stupid enough to think that he could get away with murder, even with Greg’s eventual support – but neither did he want to be unarmed when the time has come to fight for his life.

He glanced at the coffee table, where he has put side by side the two gifts received in a parallel he couldn’t help drawing. Clenching his jaw, he put on his jacket and sneaked out into the night.

 

It stood to reason to believe that whoever has taken pains to contact him in this way would use the mailbox again. John strode along until he reached the gate of the Islington Community Garden. It was closed at this hour, but of course it didn’t stop him. Earlier today he has spotted a place where some metal bars in the railings enclosing the garden were deprived of their metal spikes – under repair, he heard. After glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one was around, John climbed over them, finding an unexpected and welcome foothold on one of the lower branches of a rhododendron. He jumped off, keeping still as the minutes ticked by. When he was reasonably sure that he was alone – at least in this part of the garden – he started walking towards his goal, a little hideout perfectly located just in front of the mailboxes.

As he was threading his way among the trees and other shrubs, trying not to trample plants which could easily be damaged, he felt a trickle of sweat running the length of his spine. Of course during his military career as well as when he went out with Sherlock, he has taken part in many stakeouts, hoping that someone – or something – would finally break off the never-ending wait.

But he was never alone. He knew he could count upon his comrades-in-arms or, more recently, upon his flat mate and friend.

Here he was on his own. Nobody knew where he was. Would someone even care if he got into trouble? He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of persons who might indeed give a damn about him.

Greg. Mrs Hudson. Maybe Harry – if she wasn’t too busy fighting her own demons.

Who else?

No one, his mind whispered.

It used not to bother him, this kind of voluntary isolation, but then, he had Sherlock by his side.

Everything was different.

John stopped when the subdued light of his torch shone down on one of the garden’s main alleys.

His fingers found the grip of his Browning.

Once more unto the breach, then, he thought.

 

When he finally reached the place he has chosen for his stakeout, John let out a sigh of relief before sitting on a large rock, which belonged to a Japanese ornamental garden. He was partly hidden from sight thanks to a group of Bouddha statues, some in majesty with their hand raised, the others depicting a gently laughing man. In front of him stood a red-and-white fountain, its water whispering unintelligible secrets before falling into the pond below, surrounded by reed and other aquatic plants.

The perfect scenery to help him putting his mind at ease while he was waiting for his prey.

Instead, he felt a knot form in his chest, getting bigger and bigger as time passed.

He didn’t take his eyes off his target – the row of mailboxes a few feet from him, on the other side of the lawn. Thank to Hussein and his team, garden lights were interspersed around the tea hut and other facilities in an attempt to hold off wannabe burglars, as they have already targeted the community garden.

If someone tried to leave another gift for him, John couldn’t miss him – or her.

He rubbed some warmth back into his fingers, silently cursing the cold weather at this time of the year. He knew that he has condemned himself to several sleepless nights, sitting in this hideout, and for a result of which he couldn’t be certain.

But what other choice did he have, really?

Better to catch than to be caught, he reminded himself.

He put his hand on his holster in a vain attempt to shrug off the loneliness creeping over him.

He checked his watch – 4 a.m. In spite of his efforts, he knew he has dozed off a bit before, only to be woken up by the hoot of an owl. Around him, the great city has fallen into a light slumber, its sleep only disturbed by the never-ending rumble of traffic. John slumped back against a trunk. He was only glad he didn’t have to work a shift at the clinic, he would have been useless in that case.

A metallic clang suddenly attracted his attention. It came from the other side of the garden. Was someone trying to climb over the railings as John has done or was it some sound his overactive imagination has conjured up?

Before he could think about it though, he heard soft footsteps getting closer to him. It was way too early to believe it was one of the volunteers. His heartbeat quickened, he crouched down, ready to spring out of his hideout and pounce on his prey. Finally, his wait was over!

A slight shadow appeared on the lawn, getting taller as the person drew nearer.

He – or was it a she? He couldn’t be sure – finally entered his field of vision. John screwed up his tired eyes, trying to commit to memory every detail, from the height of the stranger – around six feet – to his clothes – jeans and hoodie – and his gait. It was this characteristic which puzzled John. The intruder didn’t try to be especially stealthy. On the contrary he was strolling around as if the garden belonged to him, stopping here and there to examine a plant or something else. John frowned. He couldn’t imagine someone belonging to Moriarty’s network, whether a spy or a mercenary, behaving in such a way. It simply didn’t add up.

It didn’t stop his heart from racing when the stranger stopped in front of Mrs Hudson’s mailbox. He pulled something free from his hoodie’s pocket, slipping it into the mailbox. John took a step forward… and felt something creaking under his sole.

His prey suddenly turned around. Spotted him right away.

They remain frozen in the space of a heartbeat.

Then the intruder took flight. John swore and ran after him. He didn’t bother to call out to him, he knew it was pointless. He focused instead on gaining speed, gradually reducing the distance between him and his target until he could pounce on him.

How he has missed the sweet rush of adrenalin!

 

He finally took advantage of a crossroads, near the garden’s gate, to tackle the stranger, rolling with him on the ground.

“Gotcha!” he growled before taking the Browning out of his holster and aiming it at his prey who was currently pinned below him.

“Who are you working for? Tell me!”

Anyone else in this situation would have cowered – John knew how to be intimidating.

The only answer he received though was a laugh followed by “I should have made you run longer.”

“Who are you?”

And without waiting for an answer, John tossed the stranger’s hood back.

It was a young man – a teenager, really. He stared at John with a little knowing smile on his lips, as if he kept a secret John was unaware of. He shrugged.

“My name doesn’t really matter, you know.”

“Tell me!”

“Oooh, you’ve got a nasty temper, doctor Watson…”

John froze.

“How do you know me?”

“That’s for you to deduce… among other things.”

The way he said “deduce” left John bereft of speech.

“Let me go now. Could be dangerous for you if we are seen together” the young man carried on. However, he didn’t seem especially afraid, even with a gun under his nose. John tried to regain the upper hand.

“Not before you give me answers!”

“I’ve told you – that’s for you to discover. By the way, did you enjoy the gifts? Those were the last ones, you know. After that you’re on your own.”

“What…?”

“He told me you enjoyed solving mysteries. As well as giving chase to criminals.”

John remained motionless, unable to keep up with what the young man was saying. He hasn’t stopped staring at him, a strange mix of commiseration and amusement shining in his dark eyes.

“Who told you that?” John finally succeeded in whispering.

The stranger clicked his tongue in annoyance. Then, with a swiftness that John didn’t expect, he knocked the gun out of John’s hand.

“No!” he cried.

He let the young man slip out of his grasp, rushing after his one decisive asset. To his amazement, the stranger didn’t try to steal it from him. Instead he stood up, waiting for John to get his hand on the gun again before saying “I’ll give you one more clue, then. He said it might be necessary.”

“Who…”

“Hush.” The young man leaned forward. “It’s a trick, John. Just a magic trick.”

And before John could move a finger, he has vanished out of sight.


	8. Chapter 7 - Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The very idea of his friend declaring his love to him was completely ridiculous. Even more so by offering him flowers.  
> Except that, if John’s theory was correct, Sherlock has precisely done so before."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And John finally gets a clue!

John woke up with a jolt. He rubbed his eyes, glanced at the alarm. It took him more time than he was willing to admit in order to find out that he has slept uninterruptedly for eight hours. He couldn’t remember when it has last happened. His mind still fuzzy with sleep, he rolled over on his back. The warm nest of the sheets tangled all around him encouraged him to close his eyes and to rest again. John sighed. He has been dreaming, but the last traces were fading too quickly for him to be able to remember it.

Eyes closed, he nevertheless tried half-heartedly to chase down the figments of his imagination, a habit born during his childhood that he has never forgotten, even during his military service.

He has heard a voice… A deep voice, which has whispered in his ear…

_It’s a trick, John. Just a magic trick._

He sat up suddenly, gasping for breath as the memories of the day before were rushing into his mind.

The community garden, the forget-me-nots in the mailbox, the stakeout and the young man saying to him “He told me you enjoyed solving mysteries. As well as giving chase to criminals.”

He barely remembered going back to his flat, shuffling along the way, his mind still reeling from the shock of this unexpected encounter.

How has this stranger known his name? How could he have quoted so perfectly Sherlock’s words to him? How was he so well informed?

_That’s for you to discover._

_Did you enjoy the gifts?_

_I’ll give you one more clue, then. He said it might be necessary._

_He._

Acting on an impulse he refused to examine at the moment, John got up, grabbed his dressing gown and dashed downstairs. He only had eyes for the two objects on the coffee table – the little wooden car and the bouquet of forget-me-nots that he has finally arranged in a vase after some hesitation.

_Did you enjoy the gifts?_

He forced himself to consider them in a different light, trying to forget everything he has previously assumed to be true in that regard.

He focused on the first gif, the yew carving. Come to think of it – didn’t it look like a London cab? A thought which made his heart constrict in his chest, as he remembered his first adventure with Sherlock – the woman dressed in pink, lying on the floor, the missing suitcase and the murderous driver…

His first meeting with Sherlock.

The first time he has killed for him.

John’s eyes were drawn to the blue flowers, which seemed so inconspicuous in daylight.

_Forget Me Not._

Three words which took on a whole new meaning if he considered the idea…

John closed his eyes. He didn’t want to follow this path again, didn’t he? But how to interpret differently everything which has happened, then?

The blue string around the flowers caught his eye. When smelling the chlorine he has first thought of Moriarty. Quite logical after all – he has been John’s abductor and torturer, tormenting him psychologically before forcing him to put on the Semtex vest.

But what has mattered at the end has been the fact that Sherlock has saved him, putting himself at risk for John’s sake.

As John hasn’t hesitated, nearly 24 hours after having first met Sherlock, to shoot a man for him.

What mattered – what has _always_ mattered – was their connection right from the beginning, this link none of them wanted to shake off, which grew deeper and deeper until…

Until Sherlock jumped.

Has he really jumped?

I saw the blood. His lifeless gaze. I even took his pulse for God’s sake! John thought.

He padded over to the kettle, his morning reflexes getting the upper hand while his mind feverishly attempted to make sense of this mess. He tried to establish links between the various clues he had at his disposal. But the more he thought about it, the more he only obtained questions instead of answers.

Why would have Sherlock faked his death?

Who has helped him? (because it wasn’t possible he has done it alone)

And if he wanted to get in touch with him – his heart leapt at this idea – why would he have done so in such a confusing way?

John abruptly stopped to spread butter on his toast as he was reminded of the young man’s warning the night before.

_Let me go now. Could be dangerous for you if we are seen together._

Dangerous for whom? The teenager didn’t seem especially afraid, laughing at John even when he has levelled a gun at him.

And then there was Lestrade’s story. Moriarty’s allies and minions being attacked before trying to retaliate here, in London…

John’s blood ran suddenly cold.

Who could carry out the Herculean task that dismantling a criminal network represented?

Who would willingly embark upon this nightmarish journey, giving up everything until he has reached his target?

Who else but his brilliant, completely mad, obsessive friend?

“Oh Sherlock…”

And this whisper sounded like a final confirmation the man he has admired, helped and fallen in love with was alive.

However, he had no time to rekindle the fragile flame of hope. If the young stranger he has encountered in the garden could be trusted, if Lestrade’s gut feeling was correct, then Sherlock was in danger.

And John was the only one who could help him.

Provided that he could find him first.

_Those were the last ones, you know. After that you’re on your own._

It meant that a final clue was waiting for him in Mrs Hudson’s mailbox.

Heart jumping into triple time at this idea, he emptied his cup of tea in one gulp before rushing into the bathroom.

 

Half an hour later, he walked in the community garden. He didn’t waste any time, not bothering to say hello to the other members of the team – he made directly his way over to the mailbox and unlocked it. The young man has been true to his word. The arrangement was small, but carefully put together. The two flowers – one bearing purple bells, the other crowned with a bright red corolla – were kept hydrated thanks to a water tube. John could tell they have suffered a bit from last night, when the teenager has been caught in the act by John, hastily throwing them through the mailbox’s slot before taking flight.

But they were still beautiful with a sweet perfume.

What did they mean though? Which kind of clue did they intend to give?

“That’s a lovely camellia.”

Startled, John turned around. Dave, who has jumped at the chance at retiring early after thirty-five years spent working for the British railway, as he has explained to John at length weeks ago, kindly smiled at him before limping closer to him.

“I used to offer them to my Rosie for each Valentine’s Day. She couldn’t stand red roses and all that “romantic rot”, as she used to say, but she was fond of these flowers.”

“Oh. That’s lovely”, John replied, already wondering how he could get rid of the old codger before he tried to tell him his whole life.

Dave shrugged.

“I never was very good at being attentive to her or giving her small gifts, so I made sure to never forget Valentine’s Day. And after all, isn’t red camellia considered as the flower of love?”

“How so?”

“You know, in the language of flowers, every one of them has a special meaning. I only know some of them, mind you, there’s much too many for me to remember… But when you offer a red camellia to someone, you might just as well say you’re in love with her.”

 

John sat down on the one of the garden’s benches, completely dazed. Dave’s explanation has left him mouth open, his throat suddenly dry. It couldn’t be true. Sherlock didn’t care about feelings. He wouldn’t do… something like that.

The very idea of his friend declaring his love to him was completely ridiculous. Even more so by offering him flowers.

Except that, if John’s theory was correct, Sherlock has precisely done so before, with the bunch of forget-me-nots.

Forget me not. Think about me.

As I think about you, John’s traitorous mind replied.

He shook his head, determined to not be distracted by mushy thoughts.

Dave must have made a mistake. Or the camellia, for all its red loveliness, has another more scientific – or more strategic – meaning.

Something which had to help John in a practical way.

He pulled his phone free from his pocket, intending to Google the blue flower next to the camellia, when his eyes were drawn to the tree in front of him.

He instantaneously recognized the yew tree – he has seen enough photos of it thanks to Wikipedia.

Dark bark, twisted trunk, the tree had an aura of majesty and eternity around him, as if it could still live a whole hundred years. And thanks to the information John has gleaned on the web, it was perfectly plausible. He gave it a small smile, as if the yew tree was an ally upon he could rely in his quest to find Sherlock.

Among the vast nest of roots stood a little board, with a large “073” written on it. Right, John thought, Hussein’s numbering system to easily identify the plots in the garden and…

Hang on. Wasn’t it also…

John stared wide-eyed at the number.

A mobile phone prefix.

“Brilliant,” he whispered before dashing to the tea hut, where he knew a plan of the whole garden was pinned up on the wall.

Two hours later, he got a complete phone number. The forget-me-nots, which have been sown in large clumps all over the garden, have given him quite the headache, but fortunately for his nerves, the red camellia and the bluebells were easier, each of them having been planted in specific locations.

Walking out of the garden, he clutched the piece of paper in his hand. He was burning with the desire to call immediately the number thus obtained. To think that he might hear Sherlock’s voice, obtaining the definite proof that he was alive… It hurt him so much to restrain himself from doing so, it was almost a physical ache. But John couldn’t forget the young man’s warning about being seen.

Being watched over.

Moriarty has used him to get to Sherlock, to try to make him bend to his will.

He couldn’t afford to be careless. Not when Sherlock’s life might be at stake.

He nudged the door of the 221b open, wondering how he could get his hand on another mobile without arousing suspicion of the criminals who might keep an eye on him, when a small packet on the kitchen table attracted his attention. He moved closer. A handwritten message was lying upon it.

 

_Dear John,_

_It has come to my attention that you might need this in the future._

_No need to tell you to be careful, I presume._

_M._

 

He immediately opened the packet, discovering inside a mobile phone as he has expected.

Dear old Mycroft.


	9. Chapter 8 - In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He needed to touch him.  
> Touch his warm skin, touch his wrist and feel his heartbeat under his fingers, touch his face, his fingertips brushing against the outline of his scalp, his cheeks, his nose.  
> He needed to touch him like he needed air."

He should call.

No – he should text.

Sherlock has always preferred receiving texts after all, John thought, clutching the mobile in his sweaty palm.

But which kind of message do you send to a man considered to be dead?

A man who has left you behind for unknown reasons, who has deigned to give you a clue only after several months of silence?

Finally caving in and throwing an old bone to the mangy cur after it has whined and begged long enough at your door…

John took a deep breath. Now that he had everything at his disposal to finally solve the mystery which has dodged him for several days now, he felt strangely reluctant to take this last step.

A storm was brewing inside him. Tremendous waves of fury were crashing against the stronghold of the admiration and affection he was still feeling for his former flat mate, shaking him to his very core. And underneath his anger and his resentment lay the overwhelming relief to know – as far as the strange events of these past days have led him to believe it – that Sherlock was alive.

A feeling so powerful that it would drive him to his knees, tears sliding down his cheeks, if he dared to dwell on it.

Unable to stand still, he paced up and down his flat’s living room, not seeing anything else than the piece of paper on which he has written the phone number.

Forgetting it, throwing it into the flames and trying to go back to his everyday life was not an option.

It never has been.

At this moment, he hated Sherlock with every fibre of his being for putting him in this tricky position – for giving him the choice between taking the plunge and contacting him or ignoring his call for help and throwing Sherlock to the dogs which were currently hounding him.

“As if I could,” he whispered.

Still, he resented this. Why couldn’t Sherlock suddenly appear on the 221b’s doorstep, imposing himself once again upon John’s life and pulling him over until John was captured in his orbit? Deep down he knew he was irrational about it, but he couldn’t help himself.

He glanced at the mobile phone. At the phone number he has deduced.

Time to jump off the proverbial bridge.

The inspiration came to him in a flash. He tried to type as quickly as possible his message with trembling fingers.

_Just a magic trick, then?_

He hit “Send”.

And he waited.

 

He received almost immediately a reply.

As if Sherlock has saved it somewhere in his new phone in anticipation of the day John would finally get in touch with him.

As if he has never doubted John would do so.

_I said dangerous, and here you are._

 

To say that John was nervous when walking in the Tesco was a bloody understatement. As soon as he has received Sherlock’s second message, coming on the heels of the first one, he barely refrained himself from running to the shop mentioned. However, the instructions were clear.

_Tesco on Clifford Road. 10:30 p.m. Go directly to the fresh food aisle. Somebody will meet you there._

Afterwards, the phone has remained silent. And John has impatiently waited, his mind lost in a feverish haze at the idea that in few hours, he and Sherlock will meet again. Even the hard, cold voice whispering in his ear, hinting at the very real threat posed by the former Moriarty’s network could not deter him.

It couldn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest as he tried to control himself, from his regular pace to the bored, indifferent expression on his face. For the hundredth time since Lestrade has spoken to him about his suspicion, John wondered if he was being watched over.

If every gesture he made, any habit he had has been caught on a camera concealed somewhere, analysed by the reptilian gaze of strangers, who maybe were directly involved in Sherlock’s downfall.

Did they watch him crumble in front of Sherlock’s grave? Did they witness his moments of quiet despair, when he couldn’t find any motivation to carry on with his life, relying instead on the force of habit and the support of his few friends?

He balled his hands into fists before unclenching them almost immediately.

It seemed the game was still afoot and in that case, it was better for him to pretend he wasn’t aware of it.

He has barely reached the fresh food aisle, feigning to be interested in the special offer on lettuce – “Buy two, get the third free!” – when he felt something cold and hard being shoved into his hand. He instinctively started to turn round to face whoever was standing behind him when a rough voice said “Don’t! He’s waiting for you over there.”

From the corner of his eye John saw the man nodding his head towards the nearest door “Employees only”. Slightly red-faced after the stranger’s sharp rebuke, he flushed even more as he walked in to the door, unlocked it and slipped into the room.

It was pitch-dark inside. The door’s handle bumping into his back, John felt his way along the wall, moving a few feet away before standing still. The familiar weight of his holster at his side gave him at least some comfort. He was already stretching his hand out, looking for the switch, when he heard it.

The slight sound of another person breathing.

He wasn’t alone.

Before he could utter a single word though, he heard “John?”

The voice was raspy, as if it hasn’t been used for a while, but it was unmistakably _his_.

John froze, as he was suddenly reminded of the dream he had while he was in his bath, the one which has broken his heart. The one after which he has cried and begged his subconscious to let him forget everything about Sherlock Holmes.

No. He couldn’t stand another illusion, like those mirages he had sometimes glimpsed in Afghanistan.

“Turn on the light!” he ordered, his voice rising in panic. “Turn it on!”

His prayer was answered after a few seconds.

His eyes blinking at the harsh glow of neon lights, John gasped when he saw Sherlock just in front of him.

 

They stood in silence, looking at each other. John let his eyes travel all over Sherlock, staring long and hard at him, absorbing every new detail, from the shaved-off unruly mop of curls, leaving only an inch or so of dark hair half-concealed under a black cap to the shadow of an old bruise on Sherlock’s cheekbone to his pallid, gaunt look. He saw that Sherlock was slightly fidgeting under his scrutiny, no doubt wondering how to analyse this reaction.

He needed to touch him.

Touch his warm skin, touch his wrist and feel his heartbeat under his fingers, touch his face, his fingertips brushing against the outline of his scalp, his cheeks, his nose.

He needed to touch him like he needed air.

“John… What are you…?”

Sherlock abruptly fell silent, finally closing his eyes when John reached out for him, his shaking hands lightly stroking, touching the pale skin. The anger which has sustained him, the relief he has felt when he has deduced the phone number, every feeling which has racked his soul since he saw Sherlock falling disappeared, leaving only the brilliant, pure confirmation that Sherlock was alive.

He hasn’t yet fully believed it until this moment, his gaze never leaving his friend’s face. Finally, he let his hands alight on Sherlock’s shoulders. He leaned in until his forehead lay down on Sherlock’s sternum. He closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scents – cold tobacco, shaving foam – and the new ones – shower gel mingled with a hint of sweat.

They will talk – of course, they will – but for the moment, John let himself enjoy this moment, this intimate bubble enclosing them both and only them.

_Welcome home, Sherlock._


End file.
